


Aquamarine

by hellkitty



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Sticky Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-06
Updated: 2013-07-21
Packaged: 2017-12-17 20:26:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/871618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellkitty/pseuds/hellkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To stay in Crystal City, Deadlock must follow the rituals of knighthood, including submission.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Do you understand?” Dai Atlas’s voice managed to turn the question into a challenge as much as a judgment, as though he seriously doubted Deadlock’s ability to understand.

Deadlock glowered back, until Wing’s bright voice floated between them. “He does, Dai Atlas. I’ve explained it all to him.”

“I’m certain you have,” Dai Atlas said dryly. “”I need to hear it from him.” His gaze never left Deadlock’s face, as though their optics were interlocked.

“I. Understand,” Deadlock snarled. It was stupid and repugnant, but he’d endured worse. He could endure this.  He doubted Wing would be half as bad as Turmoil—he didn’t think the jet had a drop of cruelty in him. And besides, he’d give a lot to learn how to wield blades like Wing did.

Dai Atlas gave a grudging nod. “You will inform me when it is consummated.”

A twitch of a spaulder, irritated. Dai Atlas caught the movement, helm tilting toward Deadlock, expecting challenge, but Deadlock knew better.  Privacy? Apparently not a thing in Crystal City.  Still, he told himself, it seemed, honestly, for a Decepticon, a small enough price to pay.

[***]

“Like this,” Wing said, taking a stance, holding out a practice blade of blunted metal.  “You want to concentrate on here.” His free hand traced a circle around his belly. “All movement comes from here, from your core, your center.”

Deadlock knew how to brace himself for impact, to take another mech hurtling bodily at him. He knew how to stand to take the recoil of a gun.  He knew how to stand, solid and immovable. But he knew, even as he tried to place his feet to match the jet’s, angle to angle, this was something different.

Wing turned to look, lowering his practice blade, stowing it against one thigh as his hands moved to Deadlock’s hips.  Deadlock twitched under the touches, the hands warm and tingling against his hip armor. 

“Loose,”  Wing murmured, as though trying to wiggle Deadlock’s hips with his hands.  “You lock your body down, to take force.  It cuts your power in half.”

“Done pretty well with ‘half’,” Deadlock sneered.

“You can do better.”  The hands pushed against him. “Come on.” 

Deadlock could feel a sudden flush of electrons, shimmering through his EM field,  a sudden flare of something like arousal, at the touch, at Wing’s coaxing voice.  He grunted, sourly, but tried to loosen his stance, the movement feeling awkward and tight. 

“Better,” Wing said, stepping in against his back, his hands wrapping around Deadlock’s waist, pressing his belly against Deadlock’s back.  If that was supposed to make Deadlock relax? It was a serious misfire: both the intimate touch and the pressure against his back sent tingly lines of arousal straight to his interface equipment.  For a moment, Deadlock was tempted, wanting to turn around in the circling arms, force a rough kiss on the jet’s all-too-civilized mouth. But he knew too well what would happen, what he’d agreed to, and that thought squelched any desire, raw and untamed.

Wing seemed to feel the moment ebb, his hands receding, his voice rough.  “Right.  Like that.”  He stepped back, reaching for his own sword, the strain of desire attenuating between them.

[***]

“Ready?”  Wing looked almost nervous, perching on the side of the berth.

Deadlock shrugged. He’d done this before, before the war: lie still, get it over with.  He’d done it to eat, back then, or to pay a guard to get to another level up, or to get out of a half-trumped up charge.  He flopped back, spreading his legs, smirking at Wing’s sudden bemusement.  “Need to talk you through it?” he goaded.

The pinions lifted and slicked, as Wing leaned, almost cautiously, closer.  “Can I kiss you?”

“Can you?” This was almost fun, Deadlock thought: about the only fun he’d likely get out of it. He reached forward, pulling Wing forward by the shoulder, drawing the jet down with him.

He couldn’t deny the sudden fuzz of arousal. The jet was attractive, after all, the exotic lines of his armor, the soft gold of his optics, looking on Deadlock with something more like desire than lust…he wrote them up as novelty, that’s all, even as his body responded with a want he knew would go unfulfilled. 

Wing’s hands stroked up his chassis, almost reverently, fingertips ghosting along new seams, before dipping lower, to the older parts, those the Crystal City medics hadn’t replaced, the fingers spreading, flattening, stroking his palms down Deadlock’s dark thighs. The jet’s own breath was shallow and uneven, as he turned his gaze up to Deadlock’s face.  “We can go slowly,” he said.

Deadlock shrugged. Why bother? “Get it over with.” 

Wing frowned, but Deadlock hadn’t been a buymech for as long as he’d had without knowing how to overcome compunctions, without knowing that a little bump of his pelvic armor against a softly exploring hand would get attention. It was an old, unsubtle trick of a mech who had better things to do, who was hungry and wanted to speed past the interfacing to the payment. He wasn’t starving anymore, but there was, he thought, no reason to drag this out.

“Drift…,” Wing said, but Deadlock knew this business far better than the jet did, reaching his hands around the other mech, stroking over the sleek flightpanels, writhing invitingly. Oh, he knew the act, knew the moves, could feign desire and pleasure well enough to earn the biggest tips. He just felt…nothing. Nothing beyond the dull stir of arousal. 

And Wing responded, as he knew he would, his mouth finding Deadlock’s throat, his hips sliding into the cradle of Deadlock’s dark thighs, grinding his pelvic span against Deadlock’s. He could feel Wing’s mouth, hot and wanting, growing ever more insistent against him as his hands continued their task, maddening the jet’s flightpanels, squirming under the light flightframe. 

“Please,” Wing murmured, his hips jutting blindly against Deadlock’s body.  One of those, Deadlock thought: one of those who needed someone to take control of their desire, to guide them in their need. 

He could do that, had done it hundreds of times, one hand sliding off the shivering flightpanels, sliding between their bodies, cupping at the jet’s pelvic armor. He could feel the tingling heat of an erect spike behind the panel, as he scraped hard fingers against the metal, until Wing gave a half-choked cry.  By the time Deadlock’s knowing fingers slipped the panel open, the spike cover had already spiraled open, spike trembling with eagerness against his palm.

He knew this trick, too, stroking along the spike, spreading the lubricant down the shaft.  Wing moaned above him, his own hand slipping toward Deadlock’s interface equipment.

“Now,” Deadlock said, hooking around one sleek hip with his heel, pulling Wing’s spike, glossy and hard, toward his valve, wiggling away from Wing’s touch before the jet could realize that Deadlock’s valve was unlubricated, uninterested. He had a feeling that kind of thing would matter to the jet, and he just wanted to get it over with.

Wing didn’t notice, shuddering as he sank his slick spike into the valve, warming the dark space, filling it, nosing against the ceiling valve. Deadlock squeezed the calipers down around it, remembering the control, feeling the spike surge against the squeeze.  Wing moaned, his hips thrusting against Deadlock’s picking up force and tempo, hips curling at the top of each thrust. Deadlock could feel the build of charge, like a distant thing, a faintly frustrating thing at the edge of his awareness, like an itch that wouldn’t be scratched. 

Wing’s ventilation picked up, deep, surging pants, his mouth pressing a whimper into Deadlock’s mouth.  He kissed back, ardently enough, taking the desire he’d felt from the practice floor here, trying to convince himself it was enough.

It wasn’t for him, but it was a luxury for him to indulge in the kiss, to allow him the taste of the other’s need.  Valves were impersonal, faceless. A kiss was personal, intimate, and Wing was kissing him. It was something rare enough for him. 

“….Drift,” Wing’s mouth tore away from Deadlock’s, crying out his old name as his body jolted against him, spike bursting its release inside .  Deadlock knew this, as well, squeezing along his valve calipers, milking down the jet’s spike, keeping him shuddering and rapt.  His own mouth flattened, bland, fighting the unsated arousal in his own body, pushing it aside to concentrate on this way he might, in the end, find power.

It was too familiar, using this part of him to ascend, to claim any sort of value, to be the only price anyone wanted of him. He’d fought so hard, to claw his way out of the gutters, to prove himself worth more, worth better. 

And here he was sliding back into it, like an oil reservoir whose walls were slick and dank. He’d never escape. He’d come so far, only to find he was nowhere at all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bom bom bom TRAINING MONTAGE....?

“This is also part of your training,” Wing said, patting the space in front of him, blithely ignoring Deadlock’s scowl. 

“It’s just sitting.”  He’d been sitting for too long, stuck in this city. He could feel restlessness like some sort of chemical burning through his fuel lines and the last thing he wanted was to sit through more of that, let it fizz up through his awareness, fill him with the discomfort of wanting to escape, and being trapped. 

“It’s not just sitting, Drift,” Wing said, his voice that patient tease. “Besides, if that’s all it is, why are you afraid of it?”

“Not afraid.”  Another reminder of the gutters, of feeling trapped and frustrated and helpless.  He wasn’t afraid of it, just….

…he didn’t like it, that was all. 

“Drift,” Wing said, pointing at the space in front of him, browridges knotting under his helm. 

Deadlock gave an aggrieved sigh, flopping down onto the floor.  “Fine. See? Sitting.”  Big deal.

“It’s a start,” Wing said, scooting closer, until the red blades of his greaves slipped under Deadlock’s knees.  “Now, calm yourself.”

Right. Like he could just do that, with the jet so near. He wasn’t used to mechs close to him. Even in the gutters, he’d tried to stay alone, hiding, hoarding for himself. On the rare nights Gasket kept them all together, in an abandoned squat, he’d stayed up all night, tense just from hearing others around him. You didn’t spend half a lifetime associating the sounds of others with potential danger was impossible to break.

“Shutter your optics,” Wing said, his voice suddenly soft.  Deadlock’s optics flicked to his for a klik, suspicious, expecting some trick, but found nothing in the amber depths.  Patient, but firm. 

He gave sharp sound, like a grunt, squeezing his new blue optics shut. 

“No effort, Drift,” Wing said, gently. “No force. Just let them relax closed.” 

Part of Deadlock rankled: what? He couldn’t even close his fraggin’ optics right, according to these high and mighty knights? 

“Your mouth, too, Drift,” Wing said, and Deadlock could feel the hard scowl on his faceplates.  He gave an irritated huff, releasing the tension. 

“Better,” Wing said, and there was almost a laugh in his voice. “It almost looks like you could even smile—eh!” He cut himself short, as Deadlock’s mouth twitched down again.  “Drift.  Not everything should be so serious.”

“Fighting,” Deadlock said, optics flicking open again.  “Not a fraggin’ joke.”

“No, it’s not,” Wing said, reasonably.  “But if we lose all joy in life, what is it that we’re fighting for?”

Deadlock grunted.  Another of those pretentious faux-profound riddles Wing liked to pull.  He wasn’t falling for it.  He twitched his face, closing his optics again. See? Ending this conversation.  Over. Done. 

Done except for the fact that he could still sense Wing, impossibly close to him.  And he could feel that uncomfortable restlessness beginning to rise like the tide, swirling and eddying and unpleasant. He felt chased by it, as though it were a shadow, racing after him, overtaking him.  The gutters, the war, all the petty indignities and violences he’d seen, and done, like filthy ragged claws tearing at him.

“Drift,”  Wing’s voice, strangely soft, almost worried, and Deadlock jolted back as he felt a hand brush his helm, one hand coming up to fend the jet off. Wing went still, hand outstretched, brows knitted under his helm’s rim.  “Are you--?”

“Fine,” Deadlock said, his optics blinking as if trying to clear away the last of the fog.  “I don’t like this.”

“I see,” Wing said, edging toward humor, trying to smooth over the moment. “But it’s important. A quiet mind is like a solid foundation, from which a warrior can move with strength and confidence.”

Deadlock was about to retort he had plenty of those, but he was a little too aware of the fact that Wing could beat him, easily.  That was what he was here to learn, wasn’t it? Why he was putting himself through this? So he could learn what Wing knew, so he could fight better.

That—that was worth anything he could give.  To be able to fight like Wing, to be able to flow through the enemy like water, smooth and fast and dangerous.  It would give them an edge—it would give him an edge.  And Turmoil? Turmoil would be shown up for what he was: a weak, hesitant , clumsy clambering coward.

The gold optics studied his face, that warmth of concern that he found uncomfortable. “We can try again tomorrow,” Wing said.

“Can try it now,” Deadlock countered. “Not afraid or anything.”  He straightened, sitting back up, sullenly defiant.

“Who said you were afraid?” Wing asked, the hand making contact again, stroking gently over his cheek armor. 

Deadlock didn’t have an answer to that.

[***]

The worst part, really, was that everyone knew.  He hadn’t been there—Wing had at least spared him that humiliation—but he’d known Wing had gone to report to Dai Atlas that they’d interfaced.  Probably had a good laugh about it, too, Deadlock thought, scowling, probably found taking the vicious Decepticon buymech downright hilarious.

It was worth it, he told himself. It was worth it, whenever Wing put a practice sword in his hands, whenever he drilled him through forms. He didn’t mind Wing, then, the jet’s insistence on precision and balance useful. And it reminded him of older days, earlier days, when the underworld had taken him in, a fugitive, drilling him endlessly in firearms.  Then, and now, he’d determined he’d be the best, he’d do whatever it took. Guttermechs didn’t get too many opportunities, and he knew better than to waste the one that would give him a chance to climb out. 

But it stirred too many old memories, looking across the plaza, knowing that each set of optics that met his, or even didn’t, just flicking with recognition to his faction symbol, knew, that each of them looking at him could probably see it in their minds: vicious Decepticon, taking the spike of the sweet, gentle mech. 

“Drift!”  Wing waved at him where he’d perched on a flight up steps heading up to a decorative fountain.  What choice did he have, really?

He crossed over, scowl still in place. “What.”

“I thought we could take a few cycles off training, today. Just to relax.”

“Don’t need it.”  Relax. Right. 

“I think,” Wing said, levering himself off the step’s riser, “that you don’t even know how to.”

Deadlock shrugged. He wasn’t good at these verbal battles, even with Turmoil.  At least then, they’d both screamed at each other—nothing like Wing’s soft teasing that left him feeling like he was trying to fight the rain. “No time. Trying to—“

“Win the war, yes,” Wing said, patiently.  “But Drift. You want nothing for yourself in it all? How do you even know it’s worth fighting for?” 

Deadlock stepped back. “Let’s go.” He wasn’t even going to walk into that trap, the kind it seemed Wing enjoyed setting for him.”  If he was going to ‘relax’ he could do it without getting tangled up in that stuff.

Wing smiled, stepping next to him, taking his hand and raising it, briefly, to his mouth. He could feel the warm metal, silky and tingling, against his battered hand, the warmth from the gold optics lighting on his wrist.  “By all means.”

He followed Wing, the jet not releasing his hand, down a broad avenue.  Bridges arched above them, an orderly chaos of architecture, spanning the buildings that stretched up toward the stone ceiling, a maze of space that somehow felt nothing like the gutters—big and spacious, clean lines and orderly arches. 

“Here,” Wing said, tugging at Deadlock’s hand, and Deadlock realized he’d been distracted by the city around him, almost dazzled by the space and cleanness, the little bustle of noise of mechs, unhurried but with lives intent on leading.  His optics snapped to the building Wing was pulling him toward, the windows of cut glass, throwing dazzling prisms of light around the air.

They stepped inside, their footplates muffled by some thick soft padding of rubber with colored patterns, big swirling loops that seemed to grow and spread across the floor in wild profusion.  He could hear a soft thumping, and some noise he couldn’t figure, from behind a sturdy door, which had a variant of the swirling, growing design painted on it.  Wing led him to the door, which whooshed aside as he approached. Noise burst from the room, some high piping sound, a soft thrum, and the thumping, a bass echo he could feel under his footplates.

Mechs clustered in the center of the room: the source of the sounds, he realized, their models ancient.  And Deadlock remembered, suddenly, some glimpse of an advertisement from the gutters of Rodion: musicians, mechs whose function it was to produce music. Mechs apparently paid to see them, hear them, bought recordings of this stuff. Which was all a luxury to a mech just trying to find food. 

And here they were, ornamental mechs in an ornamental city. And here Deadlock was, still feeling out of place, like there was something about them he didn’t get, couldn’t get.   Wing tugged him toward a row of seats, on the room’s borders. Other mechs sat there, at intervals, some with closed optics, swaying to the tempo. 

“What is—“

Wing shushed him with a gesture, leaning closer, his EM field brushing Deadlock’s. “This will help you relax,” he said.

Deadlock frowned. Figured.  It was some stupid part of Wing’s idea of training. But he’d said he would come, so he settled down on the bench, optics restless, darting around the musicians, the other mechs, the floor, the benches, everywhere.  Beside him, Wing sat with that almost uncanny stillness, a complete focus on what seemed to be everything.  The pulse of the music seemed to brush against his EM field, the strange melody haunting its way into his mind.  It felt…weird, just sitting there and having noise, sound move through him. But it did, his entire body stirring with it, even as he felt himself subside into a kind of stillness, like it was holding him up, carrying him along, sometimes sweeping and fast, sometimes slow and lulling.  It felt…good, and suddenly he could see why people would have spent money on this: it was almost as good as a circuit booster. Less intense, maybe, but carrying through all of him, making time and the world disappear.

He jumped at the sudden touch on his wrist, optics flaring open. He hadn’t realized he’d closed them until the room burst into light around him, a dazzling light that resolved to Wing’s face.  The music was gone, the room filled instead with the sound of mechs shifting, preparing to leave.  “I’m glad you enjoyed that,” Wing said, his mouth curved into a smile that somehow, suddenly, looked inviting.  


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Non-graphic PLOT.

It was worse, that night, when Wing took him. Not that the jet was rougher, cruder. He was still—like before—gentle, solicitous, his movements just as gentle, his hands just as searching, graceful.  But Deadlock’s frame was still alive with the music, echoing with sound and tempo, bright and alive. And Wing’s touches stirred an arousal in him he knew he couldn’t sate. It was as if there was a sheet of clouded glass between him and his desire, something he could see only dimly, couldn’t reach, couldn’t touch, and strained to see. 

It was frustrating and something beyond frustrating, a hunger awakened that he couldn’t feed.  His valve had always belonged less to him than to those who rented it, used it, something for their pleasure, for his profit. Not for his own desires.   He’d spent a lifetime distancing himself from it, the shame of submission, having to sell what few would willingly give. 

Wing was beautiful, really, arching and surging over him, the flightpanels trembling with his desire, as he took his pleasure from Deadlock.  It was harder to take this time, because it was a price, a penalty, but a torment, now, because dimly, Deadlock felt more, wanted more, even as part of him rebelled against the very idea. 

The jet keened a final, soft cry, his spike giving a bursting pulse in Deadlock’s body, a little star of pleasure bursting within Deadlock. And he felt it only faintly, muffled and far away, as the jet subsided down atop him, mouth pressing a series of kisses against his cheek, his body shivering in the aftershocks of overload, current pouring through the capacitors in his systems. 

Deadlock felt the change, felt Wing notice, pull away, the gold optics lidding with concern.  He felt his own mouth stiffening, bracing for the question, hating it already. “…you didn’t?”

“I don’t.” There. Flat. End of discussion.

“Ever?” Wing looked honestly confused, shifting his weight to lie beside Deadlock, one hand on his chassis. 

“No.” He scowled. “Doesn’t matter.” Never did before, at any rate.  And there was something low in enjoying submission, in being someone’s tool for pleasure, in being used. 

“It does to me.” 

Deadlock tried to twist away. “Shouldn’t.  Not going to stop you doing it.” He knew the deal when he'd agreed.  It was a price he'd pay, and that was it.  After all, what would be the point if he enjoyed it? 

He didn’t think he’d ever seen Wing frown before, but here it was, the soft mouthplates pressed flat, together.  “What if I want you to?”

Deadlock gave a dismissive shrug. “Then good luck.”  No one had ever tried, but he was pretty sure it wasn’t even possible at this point. And the whole thing made him uncomfortable, talking about his valve, like it mattered, like his years as a buymech still meant anything.

A hand, brushing over his cheek armor. “But I can try?”

He wanted to say no, wanted the whole conversation, the whole matter to disappear, fade into the past.  But the part of him still tingling with the music, and the warm, swirling desire awakened by it, silenced him.  He gave a shrug, a gesture of discomfort, but assent.  Why not, he told himself. Let the jet try. Might be good for him to fail at something.

 

[***]

Wing settled cross-legged on the berth.  “I thought you might like this,” he said, holding up a datastick.

“Don’t know what it is.”  Therefore, no.

Wing laughed, the sound a pretty trill that seemed to dance around the room the way the cut glass had cast colored light around the music place.  “It’s music. Different than what we heard the other day, because I thought you might like something new.”

Who cared what Deadlock liked? No one ever had; no point starting now.  He shrugged. He was aware he did that a lot—too much—but Wing kept throwing him in situations where he knew he didn’t  have words. 

Wing leaned over, plugging the datastick into a player, his face alight with pleasure as the first notes poured from the speakers.  “You could lie down,” he suggested. 

“And what?” Right. He could guess.  Music  wasn't going to help, it would just make it worse, taunting him with a pleasure he couldn't grasp. 

“And just listen.” 

It was tempting, possibly too tempting. But he moved, stretching along the berth under Wing’s watchful gaze. He shuttered his own optics, just to get away, the only way he could retreat from Wing’s presence, and into the music.

It wasn’t the same as before, but it was: the tones seeming to search through his body, vibrating some components, and the space behind his optics began shifting and swirling with colors. He felt himself relax, almost forget about Wing entirely, sinking deeper into the melody, into himself, as though each beat of the tempo was a step leading him farther…somewhere.

It still felt good, even better than last time, and he surrendered into it, the way he used to fall into circuit boosters, welcoming the rush. But while those had been battering, forceful, this was gentle and soft, like a foaming tide slowly lifting him. 

Even the part of him that was tense, braced, waiting for Wing to take him, disturb him, eventually faded, and there was only him and the music, and the music sending color and light and beautiful things through him.

He didn’t even notice when the music faded, the recording over, until he heard his own ventilation of air, a deep, almost yearning sigh that seemed to come from someplace deep and hurt inside of him.  His optics fluttered open, and he saw Wing, still there, still watching, the jet’s own face settled in lines near to tears.

“What.”  He felt the moment teeter on souring, even as the strange pain in Wing’s face tugged at him.

Wing pushed his face into its customary smile, or close enough, though there was still a shadow in his gaze. “…you were smiling.”


	4. Chapter 4

He’d expected Wing to take him again, that night, but he didn’t—the jet merely lay down beside him, pressing his cheek against one of Deadlock’s deep spaulders, one hand resting on his elbow, and fallen into recharge. It was strange, and Deadlock found himself up for cycles thereafter trying to figure out what Wing wanted.

What he wanted.

But Wing hadn’t done anything the next morning, either, other than grin and treat Deadlock with the sort of heady camaraderie he remembered from the early days of the war, when they were almost giddy with their newfound power,  and they’d all been brothers in arms, and victory seemed just a few weeks away. At most.

For the first time, he missed that, his spark almost burning with a pain for an all-too-brief past moment, possibly the closest he’d ever come to happiness.

It was a temptation, that if it didn’t hurt so much, would be impossible to resist. But he balled himself up around that hurt, walling himself in with his own confusion.

And now Wing perched on the edge of his berth again, glistening from his post-sparring shower.  “I want to play, well, sort of a game tonight.”

“Nothing’s sort of a game with you,” Deadlock said, cracking his optic shutters, one hand pillowing under his head.  

Wing inclined his head, as if caught, and then added, “But you will play?” His optics took on a mischievous glint. “Who knows? You might win.”

Deadlock felt his mouth pinch.  

“It’s simple,” Wing said.  “Music, and touching.”  

“You can just go ahead and do it. I know what I agreed to.”  It didn’t matter if he liked it or not. And he knew his conversation was almost in a different vein than Wing’s, as though each only half-spoke the other’s language.

The gold optics clouded. “I don’t want to.  Not if you don’t enjoy it.” He seemed almost adamant—or as close as he came—before the cloud lifted. “Will you try it?”

Deadlock shrugged the one shoulder not holding his head. “Sure. Fine.” Whatever.  He could see through this. Wing thought he could court him, cajole him into it, into thinking he liked it. He knew his body far, far better than Wing did.  

Wing slipped his legs up on the berth, stretching alongside Deadlock, cueing the music.  “Hands and mouths only.  And the interface hatch stays closed the whole time.”  He tapped a finger on Deadlock’s. “Whoever’s opens first, loses.”

Oh even better. In fact, Deadlock felt something like potential amusement stirring within him.  He could definitely win this.  Wing seemed gratified by the sudden smirk on his face, leaning forward to cover it with a kiss, his hand moving from Deadlock’s chassis down his rib struts, thumb tracing the line where his chestplate joined his body.

Deadlock pulled the jet on top of him, taking terrain advantage, he figured, his hands at first rough against the tightly compacted flightpanels. He felt Wing shudder against him, the first subtle nudge of his hips on Deadlock’s.  Halfway to winning already, he thought.

Wing was trying, though, he’d give him that, squeezing his knees around Deadlock’s thigh, his fingertips floating over the seams of Deadlock’s armor, tracing almost imperceptible lines along his underarm, where the plating was thinnest.  He felt desire surge within him, the hard hot knot he remembered, and he wanted to fling Wing down on the berth, tear at his hatch, and take him, his mouth biting a hot circle into the exposed throat.  

He wanted that, but he wanted this, too, the soft looping spirals Wing was drawing on his body, stirring parts and sensations long dormant to a sweet kind of life, the yearning little sounds from his vocalizer. He’d never had this before, someone who wanted him, who touched his body for his pleasure, not his own.  He felt himself respond, almost from a distance, his body shifting into the touches, his hands softening on the flightpanels, trying—clumsily—to mimic the gentle almost brushes on the silvery metal.

He was rewarded with a trembling release of the flightpanels, the wings spreading over him, the pinion planes tingling like velvet under his palms.  He felt his own hips rise, pressing himself as much as he could, as close as he could, against Wing’s sleek frame, feeling the satiny armor, smelling the clean oil and aroused tang of his EM field, drinking in the half a hundred signs of Wing’s own arousal, which kindled him alive across his own sensor span.

He turned, almost without knowing what he was doing, his mouth seeking Wing’s for a kiss, meeting the mouth with something like a moan, his glossa tasting the jet’s mouth.  He didn’t like kissing, normally—too close, too intimate. He’d tolerated Wing’s, as he’d endured his years as a buymech, as part of the price. He’d even found some enjoyment in Wing kissing him. But he didn’t, he wasn’t one to initiate one.

Until now, and the way Wing squirmed over him, his weight and plating impossibly sensual, made the kiss into something less like taking and something more like…wanting, like taking and giving both at once, like surrender and start combined.

Wing’s hand crept up, as the kiss ended, pulling away just enough to look down at Deadlock’s face, his face aglow as if seeing something beautiful.  He stroked the hard shape of Deadlock’s cheek armor, the gold flash of his rank crest, his mouth pulling into a quivery sort of smile as he traced a finger from the crest, back and then up the long projection of his helm finial.  

Deadlock shuddered, at the touch, something squirming in his belly, a new kind of desire, not fiery hot but warm and liquid, coursing through him like engex.   WIng gave a soft sound, like a chirr, as though taking pleasure in Deadlock’s response, his fingers tracing the line of the finial again.  “Does it feel good?” the jet asked, his voice a whisper of desire.  

A hesitation, as though he shouldn’t admit it, as though there was something shameful in enjoying being touched.  Then a nod, stiff and awkward.  

The jet sighed against him, his body seeming to melt atop Deadlock’s, and Deadlock felt the pleasure suffuse through him, like a warm, delicious oil, swirling around his interface equipment, sending them tinglingly awake.

[***]

They kept the ‘game’ up for days, though neither seemed to care about winning anymore, spending each evening in a tangle of limbs and desire. It was something new to Deadlock, unhurried and lingering, no rush, no need to push it further, as though this rising tide of pleasure was enough. He no longer cared what anyone thought of him, of his subordinate status to Wing: he knew it wasn't like that and that mattered.

And it was enough, in its way, like a vast ocean spreading before him that he hadn’t seen before, too focused on his own narrow goal. He learned the pleasure in being stroked, caressed, by another, and he learned the other pleasure--in awakening his partner’s desire, in watching Wing twitch and shift and moan under his touch.  

WIng writhed on him, his interface hatch’s gloss sliding over Deadlock’s. He could feel the heat and the magnetic stir of want through the thin panel, his own equipment pulling upward in response.  His valve quivered, a strange, new response, out of his control, cycling down against nothing.  

He shifted, suddenly, pushing a hand down between their bodies to cup Wing’s interface hatch. It was an offer he couldn’t put into words, and Wing’s gold optics flicked to his, as though making sure, before releasing his hatch.  The spike jutted out into his palm, slick with lubricant, hot with need.  He gave it a long, slow pull, watching Wing’s whole body tremble and rock forward, the optics hazing with desire.  

Deadlock’s own body responded, his interface equipment surging upward, his valve almost aching, empty, envious of his hand.  He spread his thighs, suddenly, flat on his back, his other hand finding the small of Wing’s back, pressing the body on top of his, the spike pressed between their bodies. He wanted Wing, even this way, wanted to feel the jet's desire against him, within him, wanted to hold the slicki heat of a overload like a rare star in his belly.

Wing knew, somehow, not to ask outright, knew that making Deadlock say the words woud push him beyond his comfort, but he moved, his own hands gentle, stroking down the other's flanks before curving inward to his interface hatch, which yielded mutely to his touch. Deadlock didn't protest, merely pushing his hips up into the fingers, which circled the valve's rim, curious, exploring. And Deadlock knew that if he stopped it here, Wing would go no further, simply enjoy the pleasure just this touch brought to him.  He tugged on the jet's shoulder, fingers under a nacelle, until Wing lifted his weight, sliding almost with reverence into him.

It felt sweet and wonderful, a pang from his belly that seemed to reverberate through his whole sensor net, as Wing pushed into him, slow, delicate, intimate, his optics aglow as though beholding something precious an sacred. And maybe it was, this new thing, this mingling of pleasures and desires, each enjoying the other's response, each feeding on the signs of desire, every twinge, every hushed moan.  

Everything receded, faded, as though hidden behind gauze, insubstantial: his past, his desperation and shame and there was only this mutual, shared yearning between them, pure and powerful.  Wing, moving over him, was something luminous,numinous, his tempo almost an extension of Deadlock's own desire, as though their needs were linked, and what one wanted, the other gave, seamless and effortless. They said nothing, their bodies creating a rising symphony of sound and touch and pleasure, and his world became Wing. And it wasn't surrendering, submitting, it was opening up, letting walls down, letting another in wilingly because there was no fear of domination or pain or hurt.  

He couldn't desribe it if he had to, and he let go of trying to make sense of any of it, let go of any need to control and just let it happen.  

Wing gave a cry almost of triumph, his overload bursting against Deadlock's systems, filling, for a moment, all those dark, hurt, empty places inside him with warmth and light and acceptance.

Wing seemed to melt atop him, his mouth fuzzed with charge, tingling against Deadlock's audio, his whisper barely stirring the air, as though words were still too crass a thing to need between them. "And now," he said, and Deadlock could hear the smile, the joy behind it, through it,"you understand." 


End file.
